By Andrew R. Duckworth
Launching baseballs faster than any pitcher,
Not towards a leather glove.
Towards a shingled roof,
Toward panes of glass.
They split as they hit,
But the sound is a beast,
A monster trying to tear down the walls.
Sometimes, it’s a flash and a bang.
Sometimes, it’s a howling wind.
Sometimes, it’s a spinning cloud
That turns houses upside down.
Sometimes, the beast throws baseballs,
Golfballs, quarters, dimes,
Anything a cloud can muster.